Life is no Longer a Game of Quidditch
by Zeft
Summary: Set during GoF. Oliver Wood has graduated from Hogwarts and now faces the trials of the working world. Playing Pro-Quidditch isn't a breeze, esp. with anti-social captains, dodgy contracts and Voldemort's impending return. *Chapter 3 now up!*
1. Default Chapter

Life is like a game of Quidditch

Title: Life is no longer a game of Quidditch, Part 1.

Author: Zeft

Author Email: zeft_ml@hotmail.com

Category: General/Humor

Keywords: Oliver Wood, Post-Hogwarts, Quidditch

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: All four books

Summary: Oliver Wood has graduated from Hogwarts, and along with Percy, has discovered the trials of the working world. Set during the timeline of GoF, starting from the summer after PoA. 

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

***

The summer holidays had just begun. Oliver Wood was at home, in his room. Bored and alone.

He twiddled the quill between his thumb and forefinger. A blank piece of parchment lay on the desk in front of him. The inkpot was open and ready for work, but the words did not come. 

He thought about what to write. He had any number of tasks to do, but none had any inspiration to go by, no first word to start a sentence. 

A sharp tap came at the door. He swung his chair around. "Come in," he said quickly.

Emilia Wood strode into the room. She was a tall and thin woman, with highly accentuated cheekbones and a crisp manner. At 21, having worked two years at Obscurus Books, she had already been promoted. Wasting no time, she swooped down towards the desk and neatly deposited a letter onto it.

"This just came for you dear," she said. "From the Ministry, I believe."

"The Ministry? What would the Ministry want with me?" Oliver asked.

"I have no idea." Emilia conceded. She went on, "It looks like it's from the ministry. It has their seal."

"How can you tell?" 

"Dad worked for the ministry all his life. We received letters with this seal, remember? After 15 years I learnt to recognise them," she laughed.

"Alright then." 

Oliver tore the envelope open. It ripped right down the middle. He pulled the one piece of parchment out hurriedly, and let the envelope fall onto the floor.

"Oliver, you should really use a spell. No mess to clean up, and no ripped envelopes either." She chided. She bent down to pick it up, but Oliver stopped her.

"No need, I'll pick it up later. Tearing it open is much faster." He said.

Dear Mr. O Wood,

Upon receiptment of your letter regarding your interest in playing for Puddlemere United, we would be pleased to grant you an interview whenever you like. One of our club's managers holds a position in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Go to the London Office and ask for 'Max Cornwall'. All you need to know, he can tell you.

Best of luck, 

William Chess. 

President, Puddlemere United. 

Oliver pushed his chair back and stood up quickly. Beaming from ear to ear, he almost hopped towards the door. This was the chance he had been waiting for. No more sitting around writing letters to more clubs, watching as one by one his friends found employment…no, this was his dream job and there was no way he'd let this opportunity pass. 

"Where are you going?" Emilia asked, mystified. Ever since the holidays had started, her 'little' brother had been in a state of perpetual gloominess. Not misery exactly, but certainly no ray of sunshine either. Even the prospect of good seats at the World Cup hadn't cheered him up for long.

"To the Ministry," Oliver smiled brightly.

"Some errand for dad?" she enquired.

"Nope," he replied, still smiling. Stopping just long enough to throw open the wardrobe door and grab a cloak, he continued, "it's a business trip."

Emilia's eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of business?" She asked, suspiciously. Only Quidditch could make him this happy, and only Quidditch had a possible death tag taped on.

"Career business."

Emilia looked even more confused. Her eyebrows knitted together. "Career business? What do you…wait a minute, let me look at that letter!" She was smiling now, caught up in her brother's joy. She walked over, and he handed the letter to her.

"-regarding your interest in playing for Puddlemere United," she read, "we would be pleased to grant you an interview…Oliver, this is good news!" 

"I know. What luck eh?" he grinned, putting the cloak on. He fiddled with the clasp.

Abandoning the letter, Emilia was soon all business. She did up Oliver's clasp, and brushed down his robes with a simple spell.

"You'll want to make a good impression," she said, straightening his collar. "First impressions count." Her eyebrows knotted together anxiously again. "Perhaps you should wear the blue one? It looks bet-"

"It's alright," Oliver said hastily, before Emilia could start giving him tips. "I think my Quidditch skills are what they are gonna judge, rather than my fashion sense."

"Or lack of," she teased, smiling.

"Well, I look reasonable," said Oliver. "Can't wait to get onto a broom though. You think they'll have firebolts? Harry's got one, I think they'd have them too."

Though Emilia would be the one of the last people to declare herself a Quidditch fan, living in the same house as Oliver you couldn't help but pick up all the fancy terms. 

"They are very good brooms, aren't they?"

Oliver groaned. "They aren't very good, they are the best." He stressed. "Which 

Broomstick has already pronouced them the-" "Yes, yes, I know," she said. "-only been on the market for a year as well." He finished.

One last look deemed Oliver respectable, and he swept out the door. Emilia followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen. The last embers of a fire were just seen in the fireplace, and Oliver walked over.

"I don't think you should go by floo," said Emilia, looking at the fireplace and wrinkling her nose. "The soot could-"

"-ruin my robes?" Oliver said, eyebrows raised.

"Well yes," she answered.

"Fine fine, I'll Apparate." He compromised with a sigh. He knew Emilia was just being helpful, but sometimes the helpfulness verged into nagging. He already had a mother, he didn't need another.

"I'm only doing it because I care," she said.

Oliver turned towards her and shook his head, a slight smile evident. "You don't know how many times I've heard that line-"

"I do, because I'm the only one that uses that line." 

"True," Oliver admitted.

"It's just that you've looked quite unhappy since you got back from Hogwarts, and I know this job will make you extremely happy, so I want you to get it. And since I know nothing about Quidditch, this is the only way I know how to help." Said Emilia. She hugged her brother briefly and kissed him on the cheek quickly. "Good luck," she murmured, as Oliver held his wand up and Disapparated. 

*** 

The dizziness eased as Oliver's feet touched solid ground. Strange, he thought, looking down on the wooden floor, I could have sworn the ministry had carpet.

"Oi, where'd you come from?" A voice came from behind.

Oliver looked at his surroundings for the first time. It was dark and dingy, with wooden floors and tables. Old wizards sat around, having a drink and discussing what was in 'Transfiguration Today'.

He turned towards the barman. "This isn't the Ministry, is it?" he asked, even though he was pretty sure of the answer.

"Ministry? No sir, this here's the Leaky Cauldron, I'm the bartender, Tom." Tom answered with a guffaw. "Ministry's up the road somewhere. You Apparated, dincha?" he asked.

"Yes, yes I did," said Oliver. He was dimly aware that some of the patrons had stopped drinking and were looking at him in interest.

"Your first time?" At Oliver's nod, Tom continued, "You can't Apparate into the Ministry. Anyone who tries comes straight here." Oliver didn't respond. "It's good for business," Tom chuckled.

"How do I get to the Ministry then?" asked Oliver.

"Well, you can't Apparate, but you can walk." Tom answered. "Not very far, just a couple of streets up that a way." He gestured with his thumb, then scratched his chin thoughtfully, "you mind miss it though, last time I checked it was just a door, so Muggles won't notice you see, gold door, I think." 

"Gold door?" repeated Oliver.

"Yes sir, the only gold door on the street. Go right, it's on the second street, on this side of the road." 

"Thanks. I'll be off then." Oliver said. He straightened his cloak with as much dignity as he could muster, then turned towards the door. Faint sounds of traffic could be heard.

"Watch out for the cars!" Tom yelled out, his way of saying good luck.

A roar of traffic greeted Oliver as he stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron. Muggles were walking about, some of them giving him weird looks. He then realised that he was in his robes, and also wearing a rather large and swishy cloak. Mentally chastising himself, he drew the cloak around him tightly in an attempt to look inconspicuous, then set off in the direction Tom had indicated.

Muggles swept past him quickly. Some of them gave him suspicious looks, but dismissed the thought after deciding it was none of their business. Having been bullied into doing Muggle Studies by one of his friends, he was familiar with some of the things he saw. Like cars, for instance. Oliver knew what they were and what they did, but he didn't understand why in the world people would be willing to sit in them for hours. Judging by the road he was on, they didn't seem to be able to move very fast, and made entirely too much noise.

The third door on the second street was a golden colour. Checking the doors on the other side of the road quickly, Oliver concluded that this must be the one Tom was talking about. It was rather plain, just a regular door, only it wasn't brown. 

Oliver reached for the doorknob and turned it until he heard a click. Making sure no one was watching, (everyone seemed to have vanished) he pushed the door open.

And stepped into a large hall. The polished floor squeaked under his shoes. A large couch lay on one side, a reception desk on the other. Oliver made for the desk immediately.

"Excuse me," Oliver cleared his throat. He took out his letter and looked at it. "I'm looking for Mr Cornwall, department of Magical Games and Sports?" 

"5th floor, 3rd office." The young witch said crisply. Oliver just looked at her. He now knew where to find Mr Cornwall, but not how to get there. 

The witch must have noticed, for she added hastily, "you can Apparate," she paused, then decided she ought to explain in more detail. "you can't Apparate into or out the building, but once you're in, you can Apparate to different offices. There are some stairs, but no one uses them, and I'm not quite sure where they are."

"Ahh…" Oliver replied, understanding. He slid his arm off the counter and held up his 

wand.

A second later he was on the 5th floor. Gone were the polished floors, replaced by royal blue carpet. 

Oliver walked down the corridor slowly, looking for office number three. All around him, people in the department were rushing about whispering to one another. They obviously could tell he wasn't part of the ministry, because as soon as they saw him they stopped talking. 

Max Cornwall's office was rather plain, though he must have been important to have 

his own office, Oliver passed several cubicles just out in the open. 

He knocked on the door, and it opened by itself. Oliver walked in, and for the first time, felt self-conscious. These people in the Ministry were all more important than he was.

"Just getting back to work, Ludo…" the man at the desk said hastily. He quickly pushed something out of view, then realised that the man in front of him was not the Head of the Department checking up on him. "You're not Ludo." 

"No, I'm here about Puddlemere United." Oliver replied. 

The man beamed. "Ah yes, Wood is it?" Oliver nodded. "Excellent. I'm Max Cornwall, just take a seat," Max waved his hands around, then conjured up a chair with his wand. It dropped to the ground.

Oliver drew the chair towards him and sat down, pulling it a little closer to the desk. 

"Excellent," Max exclaimed again, rubbing his hands briskly. He bent over and opened a desk drawer, and took out a stack of parchment. He set the pile on the desk in front of him, then sat down. 

"Don't worry, you won't have to write anything," Max said heartily. He was rather a jolly fellow, in a way reminding Oliver of Father Christmas. "I'll do all the writing, you just have to answer the questions."

He took up and held the first sheet of parchment close to his face. "Boring details first, date of birth?"

"17th April, 1976."

Max scribbled the answer down quickly.

"Aries, I take it?" Oliver nodded. "Impatient people, Arians are, you did go to Hogwarts, didn't you?" Max plunged on.

"Yes," answered Oliver. His first thought was the object to being called impatient, but decided since he had never paid any attention in Divination, and didn't hold with any astrology beliefs anyway, he may as well keep quiet. 

"Did you play Quidditch at Hogwarts?"

Oliver almost laughed out loud at this question. Did he play Quidditch? Who wrote these questions? Composing himself for a moment, he said to Max: 

"Yes, I played Quidditch at school, for Gryffindor." He told a breath, and continued, "I was on the team since 2nd year, and I became the captain in my 4th." Max was scribbling furiously. He looked up and nodded for Oliver to keep talking.

"In my 7th year, Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup and broke Slytherin's 7 year record." He said, then smiled at the memory. It was a beautiful day, the sun was out, but not enough to pose problems, Alicia, Angelina and Katie were in top form, so were Fred and George, and Harry, what a seeker! It didn't hurt that he had a Firebolt either. 200 Gryffindors were out in the stands, and of course they all ran onto the pitch after the victory…holding the Cup aloft was probably the best moment… 

"Ah yes, I heard about Slytherin's record. One Slytherin chap came and saw me earlier today. Big bloke with blond hair, his name escapes me at the moment, I think he mentioned you." 

Oliver's breath stopped short at his throat. He didn't like the message his brain was sending him. He only knew one person that fitted the description of blonde, big, and looking for a career in Quidditch. Oliver sent a silent prayer up to the powers that be that Marcus Flint had gone to work on his father's estate in Wales instead. It wasn't an unreasonable request. 

"Flint, Marcus Flint?" Oliver ventured cautiously.

"That's the very one!" Max's face lit up. "Do you know him?"

Oliver grimaced. "Yeah, we've met before. Several times."

"Well, this Flint person's coming to our trials next week, on Monday. You don't mind if I schedule you for the same day do you?" Before Oliver could answer, Max had already grabbed his quill and a different piece of parchment. "-Seeing as you two are acquainted with it other, it would be better this way, I think."

"Your thoughts are lousy," Oliver replied quickly, then realised his mistake. Had Emilia been with him, she would have whacked him lightly on the head. Fortunately, Max didn't seem to have heard properly.

"Pardon, what did you say?"

"I said, it sounds lovely." Max beamed, and Oliver let out his breath. 

"Come at about 7am then. Apparate here, and I'll take you there myself. The actual location is very hush-hush."

"Sounds okay. Now about the rest of the interview…?"

"Are you familiar with first grade Quidditch? Watch any of the League matches?"

"I do. I watch most of the Puddlemere United ones, and most of the Montrose games as well. I feel as though Montrose is a team with the best strategies, and their games are always very entertaining. Their captain, Sean Bobby, has fantastic technique and skill."

Max nodded absentmindedly. His eyes never made contact with Oliver's, as he kept his head bent towards the parchment all through the afternoon.

"The other chap said as much," Max murmured. "He was a Falmouth fan himself, if I recall correctly."

Oliver groaned inwardly. Why did it seem this was turning into a recount of what Flint said? Wasn't the interview supposed to be about him? Max asked some more questions; mainly to do with Quidditch techniques and his knowledge of them, but after his answer, Max would tell what Flint said. It wasn't a direct comparison, but it made Oliver felt oddly stiff all the same.

"Well that's the end." Max slapped the stack of parchment with his hand in final sort of way. His side of his palm was smudged with ink, and his fingers were cramped from all that writing. Why he didn't use an enchanted quill, Oliver didn't know. It wasn't his fault that he tended to ramble on length about Quidditch.

"Your hand okay?" He asked Max.

"Yes, it's perfectly fine," Max said, clenching then unclenching his fist. "A simple spell will put it to rights." He stood up and walked around the desk. "I'll see you out the door."

"No, it's okay. I'll see myself out." Oliver replied hastily. He was anxious to get home, and walking out with Max would certainly mean more pointless conversation. 

Oliver turned around and walked out the door. He disapparated almost immediately.

And ended on the ground floor. He cursed. The lady at the reception desk gave him a nasty look. 

Oliver took one step out the door and then apparated home, not caring whether any muggles noticed or not. Marcus Flint had killed his good mood without even being present.

***

Emilia Wood was a very nice lady. She worked hard through all seven years at Hogwarts, graduated with honours and found a respectable job. For two years she toiled from seven in the morning till six at night, and still found the time to help around the house. She was taking a well deserved break from work, and was now walking around her home, looking for odd jobs to do.

Emilia started to set the table for dinner. There would be only two places, one for Oliver and one for her. The elder Woods were currently on a holiday of their own, visiting Uncle Alberto in Russia. They had generously asked Emilia to join them, seeing as she was on holidays as well, but she declined, knowing full well that Oliver could not be left alone in the house, lest he attempt to cook for himself. 

She was dressed very casually in her pajamas, having chosen to ditch her usual formal robes for something more comfortable. Emilia swished and flicked her wand, and instantly cutlery zoomed from the kitchen drawers and onto the table.

"I'm back—What the…?" Oliver Apparated into the kitchen, and ducked just in time to avoid being decapitated with a spoon. At the sound, Emilia poked her head into the room.

"Is that you, Oliver?" She wondered, looking around. 

"Yeah, I'm down here," replied Oliver. He looked up from where he was kneeling on the tiled floor. "Is it safe to get up?" he asked.

"What?" Emilia wondered, then realised. "Oh, yes, sorry about that, I was setting the table." She laughed and held out her hand. Oliver took it gratefully, and got up. 

"What's with the pajamas?" he asked, looking at her. "I don't think you've ever worn pajamas round the house." He flashed a grin. "Is Ian coming over tonight?"

Emilia made a face of mock outrage. She sniffed. "No, Ian is not coming over tonight, otherwise he would have told me." 

"Perhaps he wanted it to be a surprise," Oliver offered, making his way into the dining room. The room looked the same as it always had. High vaulted ceilings, an elegant 8 seater table with hard-backed chairs. Two sets of plates and cutlery were laid side by side. 

"You didn't have to go through all this trouble," Oliver said, taking his usual seat. He took a sip of pumpkin soup while Emilia sat down. "You know I'd eat anything."

"Yes, but not everybody has your iron gut." She replied cordially.

The conversation soon dropped and all attention was on eating. The clinks of knives and forks could be heard quite plainly in the quiet room. Emilia made small talk, about the Ministry and what was happening in town, but Oliver made no attempt to give satisfactory answers. His mind had drifted back to the interview, and subsquently the thought of Marcus Flint being present at the trials. It was a silly worry really, he had nothing to be afraid off. But he still was grateful that Emilia hadn't brought up the subject yet.

"So, how did your interview go?" 

Oliver's stomach clenched. He didn't want to discuss that topic. Had it been up to him, he would have gone to bed without telling a soul what had happened. But, Emilia had put down her fork, and was waiting intently for an answer, a real answer, not like the ones he had been giving all night.

He made sure to swallow first, lest he somehow choke on his words. "I only have two words to say: Marcus Flint."

Emilia looked very concerned. "Oh Oliver…tell me what happened." She finished, in a more resolute tone. "He wasn't there, was he?"

"No…he wasn't there, but he went and saw Max yesterday," said Oliver. "And guess what?"

"What?" Emilia held her breath, prepared for the worst. She knew her brother was touchy about Marcus Flint. This could not mean anything good.

"He is coming to the trials on Monday as well!" Oliver seethed. He banged his fork down on the table, which made the plates jump up and rattle. 

Emilia at first looked surprised, then confused as to what to say next. She opened and closed her mouth briefly, then wet her lips. 

"Perhaps…perhaps, no wait," She fumbled for the right words, while Oliver still sat fuming silently. Whether his mood would improve or not would depend entirely on what she said next.

"You've faced Marcus Flint many times before, haven't you?" she began. 

Oliver's eyes narrowed. Telling him he had nothing to worry about because Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup wasn't going to help, that's what he had told himself all afternoon already.

"If you're going to tell me everything will sort itself out, then-"

"No, that's not what I was going to say," Emilia cut him off. "I was going to say that you two don't play the same position, so he can't be going for the same spot as you are."

"That doesn't help me. He's still coming, and I'd love it if he didn't."

"True, but it's one less thing you have to worry about. From the numerous times you've told me, Marcus plays chaser, right?" Oliver nodded uncertainly. He couldn't tell where his sister was going yet.

"So, if they put you up against him, the every point to you is a point against him." She reasoned.

"Or, every point against me is a point to him." Oliver reasoned back. 

"I'm pretty sure you told me that Marcus Flint was a big git that couldn't shoot for crap from a range 15 yards dead centre?" her eyes flashed, and her tone changed. "Or is this some other person who just happens to have the same name?" Emilia looked at her brother, and could tell she had struck a chord. He became very still, gripped his spoon very hard, looked down at his plate and refused to meet her eye. 

"He's changed," Oliver muttered, "for the better."

"So have you," Emilia said, though perhaps too quickly. "How can you be sure he has, anyway?"

Oliver suddenly felt smug, he knew an answer that Emilia could not rebutt in any easy way. "Your boyfriend told me," he said to her. When she opened her mouth to argue, he said, "Ian saw him practising at in the village field. And don't look at me like that, you know that they live in the same village. Everybody knows the Flints, they've got the biggest estate. And, your boyfriend is a Quidditch buff, so I trust his opinion."

Emilia was speechless for a moment. When she did speak, however, it was not with her usual positive voice, she sounded quite dejected. "When did you see him? Why didn't he come and see me?" Oliver was no pyschologist, nor a mind reader, but the last question puzzled him. He couldn't tell if Emilia was joking or not, and this bothered him.

"Well, er, it was the last day of Hogwarts, I saw him in Diagon Alley after I got off at King's Cross. He was working late at the shop, and I walked past. He saw me, and called me over. Then we started talking about Quidditch, and he said-"

"But he told me that he had never worked overtime before." Emilia said in a low voice. Her shoulders slumped.

Silence.

Oliver was not a person you'd readily call perceptive. He was at the best of times, ignorant. But even he wasn't so thick as to know that silence usually meant something was wrong. Being silent was a strategy he had used plenty of times before. It ran in the family.

"He told about Flint, and then…" Oliver looked at Emilia plainly. A little nod of the head indicated that she was still listening, but her eyes were a little red at the corners. Oliver took no notice of that. "He wished me good luck. And then I said goodbye and left."

Emilia said nothing. There was nothing for her to say. Seeing as Oliver had finished his dinner, and that she wasn't in the mood to eat, she began to clear the plates from the table silently by hand. Using her wand would have made the task a lot easier, but magic was a tricky art, and a bad mood might have sent the plates scurrying out the door.

Oliver stood up. "Do you want me to help?" he asked. He knew he had done something to upset her, the problem was that he didn't know what and doing manual labour was the only way to cheer her up.

"No, I can do it myself." Emilia answered in a slightly higher pitched than usual voice. She sniffled uncertainly, then shook her head. It was utter nonsense to behave like this, and she resolved never to shed a tear again that evening. 

"Okay then. I'll be in my room." Oliver slipped out the door quietly, not wanting to cause any more unnecessary disturbance. He knew most likely he was somehow the cause of her unhappiness at the moment, but rather that rectify the situation, he decided to just excuse himself all together. It was much simpler.

Emilia carted the plates to the sink silently. Her thoughts were all in turmoil, making heads or tails of it required more energy or brainpower than she was willing to exert at the moment. The cutlery made ominous clinking sounds as they tumbled into the sink. The whole room was silent, except for her laboured breathing and sounds of the china.

Emilia left the silverware in the sink, not feeling much up to work. She bid and early retreat, and climbed up the back stairs to her room. Had it really been a week since she last saw Ian? It seemed like much more. Physically, he wasn't that far away. She could visit him at work whenever she liked. Diagon Alley was a lively place, and the boss never objected. 

She opened the panelled door with a sigh. Oliver's room was just down the hall, but she knew he would be in bed already. There was nothing in his room save a bed, a desk and a few items of Quidditch memorabilia. Hers, however, was filled with a variety of objects. The bookshelf was cluttered with her old schoolbooks, a photo album of her friends, other bits and pieces which were entirely useless, but she couldn't bear to part with them. 

On the desk sat a very plain notebook. It was quite tattered, though spellotape had repaired the cover. Inside were lots of doodles and messages, silly things that the Hufflepuffs used to write to each other in History of Magic class. On the last page was a large doodle of a Quidditch match. It was rather a bad picture, just fourteen stick figures on brooms, with smiley faces watching the match. The artist was Ian. 

When Emilia first looked at the picture, she saw what looked like some flies, and a whole bunch of grapes cut in half, with one that was brown and rotten. When she told Ian what she thought, he laughingly replied that it was a Quidditch match; the flies were the players, and the cut open grapes were the crowd, and the brown rotten one was her. When she asked why she was the 'rotten' one, he replied with a blush that since his people all looked the same no matter what, he coloured her hair in to show that she was better looking than the rest of them. Emilia turned a bad shade of pink after that, and avoided him for the rest of that day.

Of course, that was nine years ago, in one dreary History of Magic class. Emilia had left Hogwarts three years ago, left the security of the Hufflepuff common room and out into the world. Diagon Alley, to be precise. She slid into bed with a remorseful sigh. Her holiday didn't seem to be helping her any more, she'd rather much be at work again. There's nothing like hard labour to take one's mind off their troubles. 

Emilia wiggled under the bedsheets and pulled them up to her shoulders. She adjusted her pillow for comfort, and turned the light off with a snap of her wand. The room was instantly bathed with the soft blue hues of moonlight instead. Another flick of the wand drew the curtains together, and the moonlight lingered for a second before the room was cast into darkness.

***

A/N: Hooray! It's finished! And it's not that short! Anyway, all comments, reviews, criticism will be appreciated. Special thanks goes to Gemini for all her help. Much is appreciated.


	2. A brief Interlude

Life is no longer a game of Quidditch-Part 2: A brief interlude

Author: Zeft

Author Email: zeft_ml@hotmail.com

Category: Humor, Drama

Keywords: Oliver Wood, Weasleys.

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: GoF, QTTA

Summary: Oliver does a little shopping, finds some admirers and pays a visit to the Weasleys.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

***

A grey mist filtered lazily through the town of Two Bridges. It was almost dawn. The mist traveled up a hill and wound itself round a large house.

The house was old, and made of stone. It was dark and imposing no matter how much the owners tried to liven it up. The townsfolk stayed away from this house; it had bad vibes, they claimed. 

The first rays of sunshine descended from the sky and shone onto the lawn behind the house. Nobody from town had seen this place; it was hidden from view by the three story house.

High in the sky sat a wizard on a broomstick. He was neatly positioned in front of three large hoops, a Quaffle tucked under one arm. The sunlight illuminated the figure, so that it was plain to see from the ground the look of grim determination on his face. 

Oliver Wood's mouth was set in a hard line. He looked to the left, then let his light brown eyes sweep over the area. Satisfied, he let loose and zoomed towards the house, stopping at about midway. One mighty throw released the Quaffle high up, and it arched towards the house.

Oliver had just enough time to race back to the goalposts before the Quaffle changed its course. This was no ordinary Quaffle; Oliver had purchased it especially from Quality Quidditch Supplies during the summer after his 4th year, and when he heard that the shop was offering to charm any equipment for training purposes, he asked for one. This particular Quaffle, when released, was designed to zoom towards the nearest goalposts, in the same fashion as if it had been thrown by a chaser. It was very good to practice with, and Oliver never left home for long without it. 

The Quaffle zoomed towards the goalposts erratically. Oliver traced its path steadily. As it came closer, he made a sudden decision. The right goalpost. He swerved in front of it. True to form, that was indeed where the quaffle was heading. Oliver grabbed it easily with one hand and shoved it roughly under one arm. 

He sighed and let the Quaffle go. It was getting too predictable. Perhaps he ought to buy a new one, or get it enchanted again? Three years practicing with the same Quaffle had gotten rid of all the uncertainty, he could practically prophesize where it was heading to next.

But practice was practice. 

Oliver retrieved the Quaffle again, and for the next hour, proceeded to train. He would fly to the middle of the yard, toss the Quaffle towards the house and fly back to the goalposts. When it came around, he stopped it from going past most of the time, except for when he momentarily lost his concentration from the boredom. Then he would start the process all over again.

That exercise did wonders for the arm muscles, and Oliver felt sure he could have been a Beater if he wanted too.

It was getting late in the early morning, and Oliver had to stop and descend. The Muggles that lived in the town would have woken by now, and it would be a sorry sight for him if any of them had witnessed his training. By nature, Oliver was not all that fond of rising early, but it was the only time he could possibly train without fear of unwanted spectators. Either early morning, or in the middle of the night, and the latter was out of the question, unless the quaffle and the posts were glow-in-the-dark. 

Oliver touched down on the grass gently. Taking his wand from his pocket, he banished his broomstick back to his room, hoping that it didn't hit Emilia on the way. He conjured up a handkerchief, and wiped his sweat-soaked forehead. It looked to be a hot day, and already his shirt clung to his body in places. 

The sun was beating down unmercifully, and Oliver took off his robes. Underneath he wore a collared shirt and loose pants, and that was still too stuffy. He dawdled his way back into the house. 

Grabbing a cold bottle of butterbeer, he sat down in the kitchen. Twisting the lid off easily, he swung his head back and took a swig. In one breath, half the bottle was gone. A blissful cold chill went down his throat, and Oliver mopped his brow again. Most of the sweat was gone, but his cheeks were still rather flushed from the adrenaline rush.

The rest of the bottle was finished off in a more controlled fashion. Oliver slouched in his chair and sipped his drink slowly. His breathing slowed down, and it didn't seem quite so hot anymore. It could have been the fact he was out of the sun, though. The kitchen was located at the back of the house, where the insulation was thickest. There were also several large trees on either side, and they shielded the kitchen from the extremes of the weather.

A couple more sips, and the bottle was empty. Oliver knew that Emilia frowned upon drinking anything even *mildly* alcoholic after such vigorous exercise, so he disposed of the evidence thoroughly by tossing it into a garbage bag by the stove, and levitating the whole bag of rubbish out into the large trashcan at the back of the garden. Emilia would never find out.

Oliver got up and pushed the chair back under the table. Usually he would not have bothered, but there was a little pang in his chest that told him he shouldn't have trained that morning, and subsequently he felt that he should destroy all evidence that he did.

Oliver felt much too hot and alive to go back to bed, so he wandered absentmindedly into the living room. Plonking himself down on the sofa next to the coffee table, he subconsciously undid the top two buttons of his shirt and picked up the latest copy of the '1993 Diagon Alley Finance Statement.' It was thin yet substantial, and was perfect for fanning himself off with.

After a few minutes Emilia wandered down from her room.

'Up so early?' She yawned. 'It's the weekend.'

Oliver shrugged. 'I'm used to it. I'm going out after breakfast.'

Emilia looked more awake now. She rubbed her eyes and blinked. 'Where to?'

'Diagon Alley. I'm meeting some friends.'

'Could you drop something off for me then?' Without waiting for an answer, Emilia walked over to a chest of drawers. She bent over and pulled out the bottom drawer, Oliver could hear the shuffling of papers. 

'Here,' she straightened up and turned back to Oliver, 'drop this off.'

Oliver took the bulky package from Emilia. It was a large rectangular box, wrapped up in brown mouldy paper. 'What's in it?' he asked, and shook the box. 

'I can't remember,' Emilia admitted. 'Odds and ends, I guess. Bunch of documents, mementos, God-knows-what.'

'Is it valuable?' Oliver stood up and shoved the box under one arm. He wanted to know how much care he'd need to take.

'If that means that you are going to throw it round the place, then the answer is yes.' Oliver rolled his eyes. Emilia continued, 'Seriously, do take care of it, will you? Treat it as something precious.'

Oliver stood up and placed his right arm over his chest, in a mock pledge of allegiance. 'I'll pretend it's the last antique Oakshaft 79 in existence. That good enough for you?'

'Perfectly, but be back by five.'

'I'll be off,' Oliver said, then Disapparated.

Diagon Alley was crawling with visitors. _It must be discount day today, _Oliver thought, walking down towards Gringotts with Emilia's box under his arm. He was a frequent shopper at the Alley, and yet had never seen a crowd of this magnitude before. The stores were literally packed, café tables jammed with families, little children and parents, bags of products shoved under.

Up ahead, the great big Gringotts bank loomed. Its whiteness stood out from the other shops that looked almost dingy in comparison. 

Oliver strode through the first set of doors, and onto the second. The silver doors were engraved with a familiar poem, warning thieves to beware of stealing from this bank. 

The doors led to a large hall. Oliver's shoes squeaked on the marble floor. Hundreds of goblins sat on tall schools, serving their wizard patrons. Oliver made for an empty counter in a corner no one seemed to have noticed yet.

'Morning. What can I do for you?' An elderly goblin peered at Oliver closely.

'I'd like to deposit this,' Oliver took out the parcel from under his arm and placed it on the counter-top, 'into Ms. Wood's safe.'

The goblin looked down at something Oliver couldn't see. A big record book, by the sound of the rustling pages. He frowned, then looked up at Oliver again.

'We have 49 "Wood's" registered here. Could you be more specific…?'

'Yes yes, of course. Ms. Wood, the one that lives in Devon?' Oliver said, wishing he had made it clearer earlier. He leaned onto the parcel, trying to see what the goblin was doing.

'Saltram House, if that helps,' he said, after a short silence. The goblin nodded. 'Leave it here, we'll see to it. Unless you want to ride down to her vault-'

'No, that's okay.' Oliver said hastily. His sister's vault was way down below, and Gringott's carts weren't famed for their comfort. 

A short while later, Oliver stepped into the bright sunshine, his pockets rattling with coins. It wasn't much, but there would always be ways to spend money.

Oliver knew that he would probably need some new dress robes. His old ones were faded, and were much too small, seeing as the last time he used them was in 5th year. 

As soon as Oliver stepped into Madam Malkin's, the old witch greeted him herself. 

'Hello dearie, how may we help you?' She asked, bustling over. 

'New robes,' Oliver mumbled. Madam Malkin led him over to the back of the shop, where a row of stools stood. 

'Stand up there, while I take your measurements. It won't take a minute.' She smiled reassuringly.

Oliver thought it was a bit pointless standing on top of the stool. He was already tall, and the footstool made him even taller. Madam Malkin didn't seem to notice. She whisked out her tape measure, and it started to take down figures. 

'What colour would you like?' Madam Malkin asked, a few needles stuck in her mouth. 'Dark blue looks good on you, or perhaps a nice black.'

'Blue will do. Too much black reminds me of Snape.' Oliver shuddered.

'Who's Snape?' Madam Malkin asked, as she fetched the robes.

'The Potions Master at Hogwarts. He's horrible. He gave me a detention where I had to scrub all the school cauldrons clean.'

'What did you do?'

'I accidentally chucked a quaffle at the back of his head.' 

Unless Oliver's eyes were deceiving him, he saw Madam Malkin suppress a smile before saying, 'Tut tut. You deserved it, then.'

'No, I didn't.' Oliver protested. 'It didn't even hit him. It just whooshed past his head and hit Warrington instead.'

'One of the students?'

Oliver nodded. It was quite a memorable incident. 'A Slytherin. It was unfair, I had to endure his taunts that I couldn't throw straight.'

'Well, I'm sure those accusations were unfounded.' She smiled and gestured for Oliver to follow her into another room.

'Now, what style would you like? We've got plenty of dark blue ones.' 

'Er…' Oliver took a good look around the room. Hanging up in sets, were _a lot_ of dress robes. Every size, colour and style imaginable, and some quite unbelievable. The room looked too big to be real. 'What's the difference?'

'Well, it's really a matter of opinion,' Madam Malkin said. 'What kind does your girlfriend like?'

'If I had a girlfriend, I would've brought her along. This stuff is better left to the girls.' 

Madam Malkin looked surprised. 'A man like you with no girlfriend? I wonder where all the young witches have gone.' 

Oliver overlooked the compliment. He moved closer to see the dress robes better, though it didn't help much. While sorting through a few absentmindedly he muttered, 'I haven't got time for a girlfriend.'

'No time for a girlfriend?' Madam Malkin looked shocked. 'What do you do for a living?'

Oliver felt a blush appear. Truth be told, he didn't have a paying job yet. Percy had one at the Ministry, and Seth had gone off to Scotland do odd jobs for a wizard company. He was counting on getting a place in Puddlemere United, but nothing was certain yet. Oliver had enough experience to know that first impressions count, and it would all come down to what happens on the day of the trial. 

Madam Malkin's question also unearthed a worry Oliver had forgotten until now. Chaser was usually the most attractive position on a Quidditch team. Keepers had to put their body on the line, Seekers needed too much talent, and not many people had the strength to fly around and knock bludgers for a whole game.

The problem with that was that although Marcus Flint's specialty was Chaser, Oliver knew he could play Keeper if he thought the sheer number of Chaser applicants would hamper his chances. Marcus Flint may lack the brains to do schoolwork, but he have a few cells, and was just the type of person who would steal someone else's position. 

'I play Quidditch,' Oliver mumbled, hoping Madam Malkin wouldn't hear him and let the matter drop.

'A Quidditch player? Oh I daresay that's very attractive,' she said, giving her approval. 'You'll find yourself some pretty fans in no time.'

'Great,' Oliver said automatically. He had moved onto another rack of robes when a bell chimed. 

'Another customer, I'll see to them, while you keep looking, all right luv?' Madam Malkin said, then rushed off.

She came back almost immediately with a group of girls in tow. Oliver moved away, to give them space. He knew that girls like to shop, and should be avoided at all costs when they are doing so. 

Strangely however, they didn't start attacking the racks. Nor did they have a conference about which colours were good and which colours were to be avoided at all costs. Instead they fixed their attention onto him.

'Is he the Quidditch player?' One of them asked Madam Malkin.

'Yes,' replied Madam Malkin. 'He needs some fashion advice.'

'W-what?'

All at once the girls started talking. 

'I say dark blue.'

'No, black.'

'Are you really a Quidditch player?'

'Wow, I haven't seen you around here before.'

'What's your name?'

'Don't mind them luv, since you couldn't decide, I asked them to help you.'

Oliver slid a few inches away from the group. They had now started to attack the racks, and left him alone for a bit. However, it seemed like no time at all when the most elegant one, (Oliver assumed she was their leader), stepped forward with one pair of dark red robes.

'Here,' she thrust the clothes into his arms. 'Go into the change rooms, put these on and then come out and show us.'

Outnumbered seven-eight, including Madam Malkin to one, Oliver had no choice but to obey. He felt that there would be serious consequences if he didn't.

Oliver stepped into the change rooms, whipped the robes on as fast as he could then stepped out again. 

The girls came over to give their opinion. They stared at him for a bit, Oliver felt his cheeks reddening. 

'Turn around.'

He obeyed.

After what seemed like ages, they gave their verdict. 

'Nah, different colour.' 

Although the girls were only doing shopping, Oliver had to marvel at their efficiency. As soon as one outfit was rejected, another one was offered straight away. He was now in the change room, just slipping on the fourth pair of robes.

Oliver stepped out, and trudged over the waiting group. 

'Oooh…very nice.' One girl voiced her approval. 

'I believe we have a winner,' another girl said, smiling.

'Good, are we all satisfied?' Oliver said, exasperated. All he needed now was for a disagreement to spring up, and it'll be another 10 minutes in here, at least. It was past noon, and Oliver's stomach was rumbling.

'No, it's perfect.'

Five minutes later, Oliver paid for his purchase, and shoving the bag under his arm, strode out of Madam Malkin's very quickly in the hopes that the girls wouldn't follow.

No such luck, in seconds they had caught up with him.

'It was very good of you, letting us help.' One girl said, almost running to keep up with Oliver.

'mn-hm,' he mumbled, not having anything useful to say.

'I know, come and have lunch with us-' Oliver's ears pricked up at the mention of food. '-We'll treat.'

He stopped abruptly, weighing up his chances. Going would mean he would also have to listen and talk. Not going would mean he would miss out on free food. It was a tough decision.

'Show me the way,' he grinned. The girls were delighted.

As soon as they were all comfortably seated in a booth, (Oliver was squashed in the middle), the girls started to introduce themselves as they waited for the food.

'-I'm Michelle Holly, I work at Flourish and Blotts-'

'-The name's Indigo, I'm studying at Ana Gio, it's a famous fashion house-'

'-Do you come here often? I live around here, I'm Sarah-'

'My name's Gem, I'm surprised I haven't seen you around-'

'-Quidditch eh? Which team are you on?'

Oliver was beginning to think it wasn't such a good decision after all. He nodded mutely at most questions.

'Puddlemere,' he answered. 

'Ooh!' squealed Sarah. 'That's my _favourite _team!'

'I just love a Quidditch player,' Gem declared. 'It's such a dangerous job. Which position do you play, Oliver?'

Oliver didn't once remember mentioning his name, but he supposed Madam Malkin must have told them when she was telling them about his dilemma.

'Keeper. It's the most interesting position, I get to do everything.' 

'I thought the Chasers did everything.' 

'Nope, Keepers do much more work. Trust me, I was Gryffindor Captain for 4 years.' 

Indigo, Michelle and Gem looked suitably impressed at this.

'Can you introduce me to anyone on that team?' Sarah purred.

'Er…I suppose Fred and George, I know where they are in the holidays, no one knows where Harry Potter lives-'

'Did you say Harry Potter? The Harry Potter?' asked Sarah, who looked starstruck.

'Of course I did. He's my star Seeker. Better than Charlie Weasley.'

'Ooohh…' was the general reply. 

'I remember Charlie,' Sarah said dreamily. 'He was a Gryffindor hero.'

Pretty soon afterward the food arrived. Oliver ate in silence, but the girls chatted away. Having his head bent down towards his plate, Oliver did not notice Michelle trying to catch his eye.

'Oh my gosh!' Sarah exclaimed, in the middle of her salad. Everyone looked up. Seeing everybody's blank stares, she added, 'There's a sale down at the Lower End. I came all the way down from Devon, no way am I going to miss this!' She shoved the last few spoonfuls of mashed potato into her mouth, then stood up. 'Who's with me?' 

A few girls left with Sarah, after dishing out their portion of the bill. Only Michelle and Indigo were left. They had all finished eating, and the dishes were cleared away. 

'So, you did say Keeper was the position with the most work, but I don't believe you. Explain?' asked Indigo, feigning a look of interest.

'It's quite simple really. The Chasers might look like they do all the work, but it's not true. There's only one Quaffle between the three players. Keepers, have to defend all three goals by themselves.'

'But Chasers fly up and down the pitch, that takes energy, doesn't it?' argued Indigo.

'Flying for long distances is less tiring than trying to do a several complete turns in a few seconds.'

'You must be quite good, I've never seen much Quidditch myself.'

'It's a really good game, you should watch more of it.' Oliver said enthusiastically. Maybe these girls weren't so bad to talk to after all. 'If you want to catch Quidditch at its best, there's no better game to watch than the World Cup final.' 

'When's that on?' 

'In about three weeks, my family's got tickets.' 

'It's pity I haven't got tickets. The World Cup sounds interesting.' Indigo said, choosing her words very carefully.

'The World Cup is gonna be one hell of a game. Ireland vs. Bulgaria. Bulgaria has arguably the best Seeker in the word, Krum, but no Keeper's a match for the Irish Chasers. It'll be worth every knut.' 

'Well since a guy like you says so, I have no choice but to accept it as the truth.' Said Indigo coyly. Michelle felt that she needed to say something at this point.

'I think it's wonderful that England is hosting the Cup this year. They always hold it in some obscure country, where no one knows how to speak the language. Last time it was in Egypt, and it was boiling hot.'

Oliver turned his attention back to Michelle, quite surprised that she went to the last World Cup final. The girls he knew weren't into that sort of thing, not extensively, anyway.

'You went to the last Cup final?' asked Oliver. Michelle nodded. 'Was it as good as they described it on the Wireless?'

'Better.'

Oliver felt a pang of envy. Due to parental reasons, he missed out on seeing the 1990 Cup final. His parents were overseas on a business trip, and they wouldn't let him go all the way to Egypt by himself.

'No way I'm missing this one. I've got six prime tickets.'

'After seeing the last one, I wouldn't miss one for the world.' Michelle agreed. They both shared a smile. 

Indigo was watching Michelle and Oliver with an increasing sour look on her face. It was time to use her charm again.

'Oh Oliver, who do you reckon will win?' She said sweetly, but not sweet enough to cause cavities.

'I don't know. It's good that I can't tell. If everyone can tell who will win, there's no suspense, no pressure.'

'Very true,' Indigo agreed. She stretched, showing off her body. 'I'd love to watch a game up close, see what's so good about it. It'll be nice to try something new…'

This did the trick.

'Say, why don't you come to the World Cup with me? I've got a spare ticket.'

Indigo pretended to look surprised, then extremely grateful. 'Really? You're inviting me to the World Cup? Oh, that's so nice!'

Oliver shrugged. 'No big deal. You can come to my house the night before, we have to leave early.'

Indigo looked as though all her dreams have come true. She positively glowed. Michelle, on the other hand, wasn't looking as good.

'It's getting late, I have to leave now,' she said. 

'I'll come with you,' said Indigo hastily. 

After a quick exchange of whereabouts, Michelle left with Indigo in tow. 

With a full stomach, Oliver was more content to wander up and down Diagon Alley. Michelle and Indigo had disappeared, presumably to join their friends.

Walking up towards The Leaky Cauldron, Oliver saw a very familiar redhead. Percy Weasley was coming in from the opposite direction. Arms full of books, he had not caught sight of Oliver yet. 

'Hello Percy.' 

Percy looked around, trying to see over his books. 'Oliver?' He squinted.

'Yep. You look like you need a hand.' Oliver said, eyeing Percy's armload of books.

'Really? Thanks very much, here just take the top four-' Oliver took the top pile of parchment folders. They were a lot heavier than they looked.

'Where are you headed to?' He asked Percy.

'Home actually,' Percy answered. His glasses were beginning to slide off from all the sweat, so he shuffled sideways and dumped his load down on a nearby café table.

'Whew, that's better.' Percy said, re-adjusting his glasses. 'I've been to the Ministry this morning. Mr Crouch has given me an article to write. I've gotten the relevent files, and some sheets of parchment to write on.'

'How are you gonna get all this stuff home?' asked Oliver, mystified. Percy had a stack of files as high as his knee, a box of parchment and several books. 'I can help if you want.'

'No, that won't be neces--wait a minute, why don't you come for a visit?'

'To your place?' Percy nodded.

'You could help me get this home, and come have a chat at the same time. All my brothers are home at the moment.'

Oliver considered this. He had told Emilia he'd be home for dinner, but a visit couldn't take that long.

***

The Weasley house was the same as Oliver remembered it. Small, yet it gave a sense of comfort and warmth. All nine of the Weasleys were at home.

Oliver helped Percy dump his stuff in his room, then went back downstairs again, passing Charlie in the hallway. Oliver accidently banged against a bedroom door. 

'Is that you Fred? I told you not to disturb me!' Came a female voice. The door opened, and Ginny Weasley poked her head out.

'Fred-' she said, then looked up. '-oh, wait, you're not Fred…' she trailed off, blushed then shut the door again. 

Oliver ran into Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen.

'Oliver! What a pleasant surprise! What brings you here?'

'Just a visit.'

'How is your sister?'

'She's fine.'

At that moment, Fred and George bounded in from the backyard. They stopped when they caught sight of Oliver.

'You aren't here to tell us what you'll do to us if Gryffindor doesn't win the Cup this year, are you?' asked George. 

Fred butted in. 'If you are, don't worry, we've got it covered. Let's see-'

'-Quidditch practice at 4am in the morning-'

'-Top secret tactics, no talking to the other team on pain of death-'

'-Practice goes on come thunderstorms, blizzards or detention-'

'-And most importantly, if you happen to fall off, make sure it's after Harry's caught the Snitch.'

'Any we missed?'

'Yes, you forgot that you must, absolutely must, learn as much about the other team as possible,' answered Oliver automatically. 'How could you forget? It's what I say at the beginning of every season.'

Fred and George just stared, then burst out laughing. 

'Shame on us,' said George, chuckling, 'how could we have forgotten that?'

'We don't deserve to be on the team,' said Fred with a straight face, 'we should be hexed, made Prefects-'

'-and forced to transfer to Slytherin.'

'Have you named a Captain yet?' asked Oliver. He was anxious to find out who would lead the team this year. Now that Gryffindor had the win they deserved, they couldn't afford to get lazy, or else Slytherin would grab the Cup again.

'Dunno, we'll figure it out later,' shrugged George. 'It's early days yet.'

Before Oliver could say something, Fred added, 'Don't worry, we like our name on that cup, we're not about to let Slytherin take it again.'

'Good.'

A snap came from outside. George poked his head out the door.

'Oh, so _that's _what happens when you add eye of toad to some crushed beetles.' A horrible aroma wafted in through the windows. Oliver held his breath as they trooped outside to look at the overturned cauldron. Ron, who flying was on his broomstick, skimmed over and dropped down to take a look.

'Funny, it wasn't supposed to be fluroscent pink,' Fred observed, picking up a stick. He cautiously poked a bit of the gooey pink liquid. 'Snape said it would be clear, like water.'

'Shows what Snape knows,' added George.

'Nah, you must have put too many eyes in.' Fred scooped up a glob of the pink stuff. Everyone stepped back in unison. 'What a waste of eyes.' He sniffed at it. 'Doesn't smell too bad, don't suppose we could test it on anyone?'

'I'm not touching it!' Oliver and Ron said in unison, before looking at each other in surprise. 

Ever since he let Fred and George onto his Quidditch team, Oliver had been discreetly subjected to a variety of the twins's jokes. Over time, he had learnt to grow wary, and now refused to eat anything they offered him. He should have guessed that Ron would have the same troubles.

'Keep your britches on,' said Fred. 'It's harmless.'

'That's what you said the time you fed me an Acid Pop,' said Ron.

'And the time you gave me a toffee that turned my hair red and gold,' added Oliver. 'It took days to fade away.'

'That was the day before Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw,' George reminded. 'We felt that you, as team captain, should set an example in patriotism.'

'By dying my hair in Gryffindor colours?'

The twins shrugged. 'It wasn't that bad,' said Fred. 'We would have done the same, but Snape found out what we were up to, and destroyed the potion before we had time to bottle some more.' Oliver gave them both a 'yeah right,' look. 

'It's true,' said George. 'We got a detention for that.'

'No you didn't.'

'Course we did. We were late for training, and then you yelled at us for missing such an important session.'

'Oh yes! I remember now!' Oliver said. 'That was the training just before our most important match of the season, wasn't it?'

'Yep. You yelled at us quite a bit, I remember.'

'Served you right. What did I make absolutely clear? No skipping out on training, unless you have an extremely good reason like a cracked skull, or worse.'

Fred shrugged. 'Lighten up, Oliver. That was years back, and we still won.'

'Not by much! It was a very close shave! 120-160! That's appalling.'

'You're one of those people with a selective photographic memory, aren't you?' remarked George.

Oliver was taken aback, and lost some of his steam. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, when you want to remember something, you can, down to the last detail. But you've got no idea of anything else.'

'And the problem with that is…?' 

George looked at Oliver, then shook his head. 'Nevermind.'

'I suppose we should clean this up,' Fred said, directing everyone's attention to the task at hand. The mess had started to spread, turning every tuft of grass in its path bright pink.

'I don't see why you can't leave it,' said George. 'Nothing wrong with pink grass, variety's good for the soul, you know.' He turned back to Oliver. 'You'll be staying for dinner, right?'

Oliver shook his head. 'I can't. Got to get back home soon.'

'Well, we'll accompany you to the door. It's not everyday that a Quidditch Cup winning Captain comes to visit.' Said Fred.

'What about the mess?' Ron reminded. He bent down to take a closer look, then changed his mind halfway and stepped away from it instead.

'Leave it here,' Fred dismissed with a wave. 'Guests come first.' He grabbed Oliver's shoulder and led him back into the house, with George and Ron in tow.

'Where're you going boys?' asked Mrs. Weasley. 'What's the-Merlin's beard, is that _pink grass?_'

'No, not at all Mum, it's just a trick of light,' answered Fred cheerily. 'Isn't that right Ron, George?'

'Absolutely,' replied Ron and George in unison. 'You must be seeing things mum,' added George. 'I suspect the gnomes are up to something. Probably dying their clothes pink.'

Mrs Weasley gave her sons a suspicious look while tossing some vegetables in a pan. They turned over automatically.

'Staying for dinner, dear?' She asked Oliver kindly. 

'No, I'm going just now. Fred and George are seeing me to the door.'

'George!' Mrs Weasley said, exasperated. 'It's almost like you wanted him to leave.'

'No, we didn't. He decided to leave all by himself. We had no hand in it. Ain't that right, Oliver?'

Oliver nodded. 'I really must go-'

'-and besides,' George continued, interrupting Oliver, 'why do you always call out my name? You never call out Fred.'

'Are you sure you can't stay, Oliver?' asked Mrs. Weasley, ignoring her son. 'It's been quite a while since you last came.'

Oliver thought about it. Just how ticked off would Emilia be if he didn't show up? 

'I don't know-'

'In that case, we'll make up your mind for you. You're staying.' George said firmly. He turned Oliver towards the kitchen table, drew up a chair and told him to sit down.

'George, let the poor boy make up his own mind.'

George ignored his mother. He had a better idea.

'I hear BallyCastle is going to cream Puddlemere next time they meet,' he said smugly.

'No way!' Oliver shook his head violently. 'You've got to be joking George. They slipped to 4th on the ladder last season. It's not happening.' Oliver squared his jaw determinedly.

George merely shrugged, and sat down. Fred and Ron did the same. 'You can't deny that Craig Moore is a brilliant Beater, no?'

Oliver sat down with a thump. He didn't see what Craig Moore had to do with this, even though he was a brilliant Beater. 'Brilliant's a bit weak. I'd go with 'brand spanking fantastic', myself.' None of the three Weasley boys said anything, so he added, 'How does this mean BallyCastle will whomp Puddlemere?'

'Well, seeing as dear old Craig's transferring to BallyCastle…'

Oliver was so stunned that the information didn't register in his brain immediately. He sat, unblinking for a few seconds.

'You're lying,' Oliver said after a bit. He glared at the twins. 

'Suit yourself,' said George calmly, and with absolute sincerity, 'just don't complain when Puddlemere gets whipped.'

Now Oliver was deadly curious. He was dying to know whether the news was true or not. You could never tell with Fred and George. He didn't suppose he would find an article in _the Daily Prophet; _ it was mainly a broadsheet that entrepreneurs and Ministry workers read. All high-brow stuff. Emilia had a subscription. 

'I don't suppose you would have a copy of _League Guide _lying around, would you?'

Fred summoned one from the living room. It flew onto the table neatly. The four boys crowded around it.

'Here, it even says on the cover-' George pointed out the picture of Craig Moore, underneath, in glittering words was written: _Moore's change of heart._

Oliver took the magazine from George's hands, flipped to the appropriate page, and started reading.

'_An announcement made today by Puddlemere United Beater Craig Moore has shocked fans all around Britain. The 28 year old Quidditch player, dubbed one of England's finest, has decide that he would play his last few seasons for BallyCastle Bats, a North Ireland team. _

'Puddlemere fans were outraged-Too right!_-some choosing to voice there protests outside the BallyCastle headquarters. At midday, Moore stepped out and greeted his ex-supporters. Several wizards tried to throw hexes while he was answering questions, and had to be taken away by Ministry officials. _

'It is not clear what caused this sudden switch, with some saying money and publicity was involved. "I don't know how Moore's got a right to complain if it's about his treatment at Puddlemere,' remarked one disgruntled fan. 'Can't have anything to do with publicity, he's [Craig] been on every bloody magazine cover since the grand final!"

'Others say it was because of disagreements between the Captain and the President that forced his hand.

'Moore refused to say just how much BallyCastle was paying him, though insisting that money was not the cause of his defection. "I simply wanted my training grounds to be closer to where I live," insisted the Irish player, "I have the upmost respect for Avalon [Puddlemere Captain], _but I feel his 'young blood' policy is a bit too much."_

Avalon could not be reached for comment. Whether this will spell the end of Craig Moore's career remains to be seen. One thing is certain, however, the first match of the '94 season is a must-see. Puddlemere vs. BallyCastle, October 15th."'

Oliver closed the magazine roughly. 'What a load of rot,' he said. 

'Rot it may be, but it's definitely true.' George pointed out. '_League Guide _does not gossip-hey, where're you going?'

'Home,' Oliver answered. 

'What, you're not letting us accompany you to the door?' 

'I'll Apparate,' replied Oliver. He took his wand out of his pocket. 'By the way, you've got some funny looking creatures in your yard.'

The last thing he saw before Disapparating was the sight of George, Fred and Ron bending over what looked like biscuits, only with legs.

***

__

Home, Oliver thought as his feet made the familiar thud on the hall tiles. He opened his eyes, and looked around. The grandfather clock by the mantle piece had just struck 7pm, the dark mahogany wood a stark contrast to the sky blue wallpaper.

He strode down the hallway quietly, the house was silent as a ghost. A little noise made him jump. 

'Just where have you been?' demanded Emilia. She stood at the top of the stairs, wearing her bathrobe and bedroom slippers. She didn't look too pleased.

***

A/N: Special thanks to Gemini and WinterStorms, the former for her fabulous beta-reading, and the latter for her nagging. Couldn't have done it without you guys. 

***

Chapter is finished.


	3. Quidditch and more Quidditch

Author's Note: Beware, this chapter has plenty of OC's. However, bear with me, they're there for a purpose.  
  
***  
  
  
  
Puddlemere United was officially the oldest club in the British and Irish League.  
  
William Chess III was rather proud of that fact. He sat at the desk of Puddlemere HQ, a large stone building next to the Puddlemere river. One of this ancestors had founded this club in 1163, almost a millennia ago.  
  
Easing himself back into the comfy leather armchair, William let his gaze travel upwards, towards where all the portraits of past Presidents hung. There were too many to fit into this room, so only the more recent ones were present. The others hung in the trophy room.  
  
Unlike usual wizard portraits, these did not move. Their features stayed the same, stony and silent. Most people didn't realize how dangerous being in the Quidditch business could be. The players themselves, they had no cause to fear for their lives. As much as someone as compassionate as William hated to admit, they were servants, almost, doing their job while their masters squabbled with each other.  
  
There was a very good reason why the portraits did not move. Over the decades, different branches of the Chess family had fought over the highest seat in a Quidditch club. Being the President was like ruling your own little kingdom, and with such a club as Puddlemere, one with a very large and loyal fanbase, it was probably the closest to being Minister of Magic without having to work for the Ministry.  
  
There were ten portraits hanging all around the room, from William's great- uncle Arthur, to Anne, who died in 1849. To say the portraits hated each other would be an understatement. They were all opinionated people with large mouths; no sooner had William taken the job, he was yelled bits of advice from morning till nightfall. That would have been all good and well, could he actually hear what they were saying. One bit of advice was accompanied by nine voices telling him not to listen. In a fit of terrible earache, William froze them all. They stood there now, all with permanent glares.  
  
A polite knocking came at the door.  
  
'Come in,' William said pleasantly. Whoever it was would be a welcome distraction from ten ancestors beating him to death with their permanent disapproval.  
  
Max Cornwall entered. He was short fellow with a round, chubby face. Max was William's link to the Ministry. A stack was parchment was tucked haphazardly under one arm. William was concerned; Max seemed to have lost some weight. The robes hung about him a lot more loosely than usual.  
  
'I've got the statistics you've ordered…sir,' he said, putting down the stack carefully. 'Full lists of all our players, averages, rival teams, plus comparisons with past years-' he rattled off.  
  
'Thank you.' Max stopped abruptly. William smiled. 'I know what's in it, it says so,' he jabbed a finger on the contents page, 'right here.'  
  
Max smiled uncertainly. He fought for something to say. 'Today's the trials, but you probably already know that.'  
  
William looked surprised. 'Already? It's only summer.'  
  
'Yes, but we moved it up several years ago. If we pick our sides now, we have two months to train them up before the season starts.' Max said proudly.  
  
William frowned; he didn't usually forget these things. However, he didn't care. It had been a welcome change, forgetting. Having an extraordinary memory had its bad points, forgetting made him seem more human, somehow. 'It must be because my family didn't remind me,' he joked, gesturing to the portraits. They glared back at him. He never regretted shutting them up, it was probably the wisest thing he'd ever done.  
  
Max fidgeted. The portraits made him nervous. Even thought they couldn't talk or move, their mere presence was a distraction. He cleared his throat.  
  
'I've been thinking sir,' he started. William looked at him intently. Max usually had worthwhile suggestions, unlike the portraits. 'These ancestors, don't you think they'd be more comfortable in the trophy room? When you retire, and either Phillip or Colin takes your place, I think the sight of their an-'  
  
Max stopped talking when he realized William was grinning. He frowned. It wasn't one of those smiles; it was grin that said 'I'm secretly laughing at you but too polite show it'. He sniffed. 'I think it's a reasonable suggestion.'  
  
William chuckled. 'I couldn't remove my ancestors. That's sacrilege.'  
  
'You froze them,' pointed out Max.  
  
'That's different. Don't worry, my boys aren't intimidated by a bunch of ancestors. Why, they hardly listen to me, and I'm still alive!'  
  
Max's face clearly showed that now wasn't the time to fool around. William stopped, his tone instantly becoming somber again. The many wrinkles on his face seemed to stand out more day by day. Being the head had its advantages, but it also had its drawbacks. Years of stress had taken their toll; he looked old and felt even older.  
  
'I told them to come to today's trials,' Max spoke first, breaking the silence. He took on more of his usual confident tone. 'I thought we might let them try the ropes, see how they do.'  
  
William thought about this. When he was a lad, it had been very clear cut. None of this 'choose the best person for the job', though sometimes it worked out okay. William inherited Puddlemere off his great-uncle Arthur. At 23, he probably wasn't the best person for the job.  
  
'Sir?' Max ventured cautiously.  
  
'Hmm? Oh yes. It's a good idea. Really, I don't know where my mind goes these days,' said William good-naturedly. He was tired, that's for sure, yet there was still so much work to be done.  
  
'You haven't said anything on the subject of Catherine, sir,' Max spoke diligently. He was one of those people who turn over each stone twice, just to make sure they hadn't left any out.  
  
'Catherine has no interest in Quidditch,' answered William forlornly, his usual gravity seeping in.  
  
Catherine was William's eldest child. Twenty-four years old now, she left home right after graduating from Hogwarts to find her calling. She said she was sick of England, and eighteen years in a house where Quidditch was the only topic of conversation was more than enough. William didn't know where she was, or what state she was in. Six years had dulled the emotions, and to his dismay, found that he didn't care much about her.  
  
'Add the fact that we have no idea where she is,' stated Max with his usual bluntness.  
  
'No need to state the obvious,' William disguised the hurt in his voice. True, people talked and everyone knew about his missing daughter, but they didn't need to mention it so often. He rubbed his forehead tiredly, pushing the greying hair out of the way. When he spoke, his voice cracked with thinly veiled sadness.  
  
'It was my fault,' he mumbled, not having the energy to speak properly. 'If I hadn't, if I-' he paused, unable to continue. The memories were painful, William counted himself lucky that he'd never encountered a Dementor before. He wouldn't know how to defeat it. During his time at Hogwarts he had been taught how to conjure a Patronus, but nobody in the class ever had a real Dementor to practise on.  
  
Clearing his throat, he tried to continue. 'If I hadn't…hadn't pushed her so much, showed her some more affection, perhaps she wouldn't have tried to rebel.'  
  
Max made a derisive noise. William's ears picked up on this, and he felt a pricking of anger. How dare he, making fun of Catherine? Max must have noticed, because he chose his words carefully.  
  
'What I mean sir, is that Catherine,' he paused to think, 'well, you should move on.' William stayed resolutely silent. 'Forget about her. She obviously doesn't care about you, she's most likely passed away-'  
  
'She is not dead!' William snapped, himself surprised at how angry he was. Taking a calmly breath, he tried to not let his emotions (what was left of them, anyway) cloud his thoughts. 'What I mean is, Catherine's not the sort of girl who'd leave unless she was absolutely sure of where she was going.'  
  
Max tried to look sympathetic. When he spoke, it was in a smooth, confident, no-nonsense tone. 'I didn't mean any offense, sir. I was just pointing out that with the new season looming so close, and with a successor to choose, it is not wise to dwell on things we cannot change.'  
  
'I suppose you're right,' grumbled William. 'Listen, just make sure the trials go well, okay? The last thing I need is to leave on a bad note.' He shuddered to think of the consequences of history repeating itself.  
  
'Yes sir,' said Max before Disapparating.  
  
***  
  
Oliver gawked.  
  
In all his life, he had never seen anything so majestic, so awe-inspiring. The main room of Puddlemere HQ was a hybrid of blue and gold; large, shiny banners hung from the tall ceiling, players strutted around the visitors; their heads held high, their Quidditch cloaks sweeping the floor. Oliver wished he didn't look so starstruck.  
  
'Wow,' breathed one girl when the gaggle of applicants stopped right under a shiny banner. Oliver felt that 'wow' just about summed it up. There was no way the HQ could always look like this. It must be because they actually have visitors today. All the glossy material was probably just a show.  
  
'Wait here,' commanded Mr. Cornwall. He disappeared through the double doors underneath the banner.  
  
Oliver's eyes swiveled around, trying to take in everything at once. It was all too fantastic. The only time he had felt this way was right before the Sorting. Tearing his eyes away from the fancy decorations. He regarded his fellow applicants warily. A few he recognized from Hogwarts, on opposing House teams.  
  
Oliver's eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Marcus Flint. Flint hadn't noticed him yet, and he wanted to keep it that way. Warrington was also present, conversing in low tones with Flint. Altogether Oliver recognized four people from Hogwarts and seven others he didn't know.  
  
Mr. Cornwall strode back into view. Wearing navy blue robes with gold edging, he could have blended in perfectly with the walls. A big smile was on his face as he gazed fondly at the group of adolescents.  
  
'In a minute, you will pass through these doors and join the rest of the team. Trials will run from now till twelve, when lunch will be held. Afterwards, they will continue until five in the evening. Understood?'  
  
There was a murmur from the group. Mr. Cornwall pressed on. 'As you all know, not everyone will be chosen. While I wish with my heart that we could take on every one of you, alas this isn't so. Get out there, give it your best shot, and no one will think the worst of you. I wish you all the best of luck.'  
  
'Certainly silver-tongued, ain't he?' Flint whispered to Warrington, who snickered. 'No wonder he's in the Ministry.'  
  
Mr. Cornwall didn't hear them. With a great flourish of his wand, the double doors leading to the next room began to open. Oliver felt the pounding in his heart grow stronger. Quidditch clubs guarded their secrets jealously and all the gold in Gringotts couldn't buy you a pass into the inner chambers where the players trained.  
  
Mr. Cornwall led them all into the room. For the second time, Oliver felt his breath stop. While this room was less cluttered with useless decorations, it was nevertheless just as impressive. The seven members of Puddlemere's First Grade team stood in a picture-perfect formation near the back doors. The entire back wall was glass, polished so smooth you'd believe you could fly through it. On the left, were the broomsticks. They were too far away for the names to be seen, but their shapes showed that they were Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones, each twig straightened to precision.  
  
Oliver was a tad disappointed that they weren't Firebolts. It was too good to hope for, really, he knew they cost a great deal of money. A Nimbus Two Thousand and One was still one better than the broomstick he had at home, a Nimbus Two Thousand. He should be grateful, the Weasley twins still played on Cleansweeps.  
  
'Everybody up for the position of Beater or Seeker…follow Lyons,' Mr. Cornwall said. Oliver watched as a thick, heavy-set man detached himself from the rest of his teammates. He sauntered towards Mr. Cornwall, accepting the clipboard he was handed, and made off in the direction of the grassy pitch outside. A few applicants followed him, leaving Oliver standing with Flint, Warrington, and three girls.  
  
A small lithe lady had stepped forward beside Mr. Cornwall. Oliver's eyes nearly popped out in shock. She was a dead ringer for Cho Chang, same hair, same face, right down to the same way of walking. If he ever got the chance, he just had to ask if the two were related.  
  
'Only six? Nevermind, follow me.' Same voice too.  
  
The group trotted obediently after her. By this time, even someone as ignorant as Flint couldn't fail to notice Oliver being present. They had seen him - he could hear the snickers behind his back. Squaring his shoulders, he tried to look confident. Truthfully, today was a lot more nerve-racking than House trials ever could be. Oliver's whole future depended on his performance today. He was getting a headache just thinking about it.  
  
The lady that looked like Cho Chang led them to another pitch, different to the ones that the Beaters went to. This one had the goal posts set up, the rings looking a lot higher than usual. Made out of steel, the metallic sheen reflected the sunlight. Hogwarts goalposts could never compete with these ones. Due to the high energy magical fields around, they had to the annoying habit of making sounds whenever anything came in contact with them. Too many times Oliver had come back from Quidditch training with a horrible ringing in his ears.  
  
'My name is Mei, I'll be checking you out today,' Mei said enthusiastically. Her eyes wandered around as she spoke, taking in everyone's appearance. Oliver hastily hid the dirty patch on his trouser leg with his cloak. She looked young, maybe 20 or so, which probably explained her enthusiasm. None of the other team members looked too keen. 'I suggest you give me no reason to hate you, because what I say counts.' She flicked the application forms with a bit of a smirk. 'This is the way it works: The application forms say that we have three going for Keeper, three going for Chaser. Am I correct?'  
  
The players nodded uncertainly. Oliver looked at the competition casually. Two opponents eh? The only other guys were Flint and Warrington, which meant that two of the girls were going for the same position as him. He was surprised, not many girls would pick Keeper as their first choice. It was a dangerous position. Oliver knew from personal experience if you weren't willing to put your body on the line, you wouldn't be very successful.  
  
'So we'll do it this way. Flint, Warrington, and McHardy; you'll work as a team. I'll put each Keeper on one at a time, see how many goals they can stop. Switch Keepers after twenty minutes.' Mei whipped out her wand, and summoned five broomsticks from a cupboard indoors. She did not drop them to the ground, but let them levitate in front of each player.  
  
'Beckfield, you're up first.'  
  
Mounting their brooms, the four players and Mei rose up to the level of the goalposts. Oliver was relieved he didn't have to go first. It was much easier to scope out the competition first. He sat down on a nearby bench, next to the other girl playing Keeper. She didn't look at him, but a slight change in posture meant that she noticed his presence. Oliver chose not to look at her, instead concentrating his energies on the players up overhead.  
  
Mei passed the Quaffle to Flint, then flew so she was out of the path of play. Oliver saw the girl hover uncertainly in front of the middle goalpost. This was mistake, and Oliver shook his head in disappointment. He knew she was his opponent, but he couldn't stand to see any form of Quidditch being played badly. It cheapened the winning feeling.  
  
Exactly as he imagined, Flint passed the Quaffle to Warrington, who raced off towards the left goalpost. Beckfield saw this, and rushed to head him off. Warrington snapped the Quaffle to Flint, right in position in front of the right goalpost, who threw it in for an easy 10 points.  
  
Warrington flew to Flint and they gave each other high-fives. Oliver groaned, since when did they become so chummy? He should have guessed what was happening, they were going to use their teamwork, which put them at a considerable advantage over the other Chaser.  
  
The next twenty minutes passed by quickly; by the end of it Oliver shielded his eyes, it was too embarrassing to watch Flint and Warrington totally destroy this girl. Once or twice, he had the mad urge to yell out pointers; it was the inner captain coming out, but he bit his lip firmly and kept silent. It would probably go unappreciated, anyway.  
  
'Alright, you can come down now.' Mei gave a blast of her whistle. The four players touched down.  
  
Oliver saw her furiously scribbling on the parchment with a quill she had conjured up, looking at each of the sweaty players in turn. Ten minutes generally wasn't a long time in a game, but it was only the three Chasers versus the Keeper, with no Bludgers or opposing Chasers providing distractions. Mei sent the players inside to wash up a bit. He glanced at each of them in turn as they walked past him, but none of them glanced back. Beckfield looked heart-broken, Flint and Warrington pleased with themselves, their teammate just looked glum. Between her and Beckfield, she was probably worse off. At least Beckfield got to do something; the Chaser was only passed the Quaffle a few times, and those moves were so badly set up, Oliver would not be surprised if even League players could not pull off a goal.  
  
A few minutes later, the three Chasers and the other Keeper were up in the air again. Mei took her usual spot, keeping a firm eye on the proceedings. Oliver was disappointed Mei had nothing to say about Flint not giving McHardy a fair go; a lone Chaser had about as much fighting chance as a hen in a fox den. It was bloody unfair.  
  
Mei blew her whistle, and Flint seized the Quaffle immediately, flying straight towards the goalposts. Oliver could tell this Keeper had more on- field experience; she hadn't done anything yet but just the way she held herself over the broom; arms taut, eyes not leaving the Quaffle, showed that she knew what she was doing.  
  
The sun peeked through a cluster of fluffy white clouds. It was going to be a hot day. Oliver stopped looking up at the players when he found that he'd have to squint to see through the sunshine. There was nothing interesting on the ground; a few tufts of weed on an otherwise neat lawn, some noticable skid marks and a small depression in the dirt.  
  
Looking around, he saw the pointy bit of a wizard's hat emerge from the doorway, followed by a stranger wrapped up in a black cloak. He looked around, first up at Mei, then at the four players. Mei did not see the stranger; she kept on watching the players.  
  
It was over all too soon. A familiar knot of nervousness fluttered across Oliver's stomach as Mei asked for the players to come down.  
  
Flint and Warrington looked more sweaty and less pleased with themselves. The Keeper had made them work. She was smart, that girl, having caught on early to Flint's trademark moves. Mei gave her a smile before she sent them off to get a drink.  
  
She noticed the stranger for the first time.  
  
'Mr. Chess!' She sounded surprised. 'What are you doing here?'  
  
Mr. Chess turned his face towards Mei and took off his hat. Oliver strained to catch a glimpse. He saw first a head of brown hair, cut and combed neatly. Mr. Chess looked up into the light, revealing a handsome face with chiselled features.  
  
'No need for formalities. You may call me Colin.' He tried to smile, but obviously didn't try hard enough. It look raw; like a badly scuptured statue. 'As for me being here, can't a King observe his own kingdom?'  
  
Mei had no answer to this, so she merely nodded to show that she understood. They did not speak to each other again, as Colin didn't seem very talkative. Taking out his wand, he conjured up an armchair and sat down on it.  
  
Oliver was intrigued by Colin. Mei had addressed him as "Mr. Chess", the same name that appeared on the bottom of all acceptance letters. It was rare for the head of a Quidditch organization to appear at something as trifling as a trial, those events were organized by their underlings.  
  
'Wood! You're up.' Mei said curtly.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Oliver rose from the bench and walked to pick up his broomstick. Flint leered at him as he walked by. He did not endeavor to whip out some snappy retort, there were more vital things to concentrate on.  
  
His hands trembled as he gripped the Nimbus Two Thousand and One, the handle slick with sweat and dirt from the palms of the previous two Keepers. Taking a corner of his cloak, he gave it a quick swipe; it got rid of the sweat but now the broom handle felt lightly sticky to touch. Swinging one leg over the side, he mounted and pushed off.  
  
It was amazing how much rushing air cleared up the brain. No matter how calm a day might be, there always was a breeze up here. The feel of fresh, cool air heightened the senses marvellously, Oliver felt every trace of nervousness leave his body. This was just another match, he knew his opponents, he had absolutely nothing to worry about.  
  
He grinned at the thought of Flint doing him an unexpected favour. Using the same Chaser moves as they always did at Hogwarts matches, Flint and Warrington succeeded in demolishing the first two Keepers. Not bad, except for one minor detail they left out.  
  
There was no way in Hell those moves would fool the same opponent they'd had for the last three years, and Oliver planned to make them pay dearly for that one little mistake.  
  
Tilting his head from side to side, he got ready to make some potentially neck-snapping movements. He did not hover, hovering betrayed insecurity. Instead, he planted himself firmly in front of the right goalpost, watching Flint intently, muscles poised for action.  
  
As usual, Flint made the first move. Oliver felt a tingling go through his muscles. Every fibre, every nerve was straining for action.  
  
Flint headed towards the posts, Warrington flying close next to him. McHardy zoomed alongside Flint, on his other side. Had they looked more intimidating, it might have passed as an Hawkshead Attacking Formation.  
  
Flint headed for the middle post, the other Chasers on either side of him. Oliver knew what he was going to do. It looked Flint was aiming for the middle post, but at the last minute, he would swerve to the left and go for the left post instead. Not yet, Oliver told himself, move too soon and you lose. The trick was in the timing. Too fast, and you give the Chaser the opportunity to aim for another goal. Too slow, and they'll get it in.  
  
Sure enough, that was exactly what Flint did. Oliver was ready; he raced to the left goalpost, executing a perfect 360 to knock the Quaffle off course. It gave the broomstick a satisfying smack, flying back towards Flint, who caught it.  
  
Oliver felt a stab of panic race through him. Having been a Captain, he was accustomed to doing lots of things at once. His eyes were used to darting around; making sure the Chasers were getting the Quaffle up the pitch, that Fred and George aimed for more than one person, that Harry hadn't dozed off…and now he could see McHardy within range of the right goalpost. If Flint was to toss her the Quaffle now, he would never have the time to race over there.  
  
A crucial second went by. Flint drew his arm back, and threw the Quaffle right at Oliver, who was so stunned that he didn't feel the pain just yet. He was all ready to race off at break-neck speed, he didn't expect that Flint would chuck the Quaffle right at him.  
  
Once he regained his senses, he shook his head. Throwing the Quaffle as hard as you could at the opposing Keeper was a lousy tactic. Might hurt them, but they were solid, you'd never score. He threw the Quaffle at McHardy, who was so surprised someone passed had passed her the Quaffle she almost dropped it.  
  
The game went on in similar fashion for the rest of the twenty minutes. Halfway through, Oliver saw Mei descend to talk to Colin.  
  
'A promising group, what do you think?' Mei said, drawing up a chair to sit next to Colin. It was too hard trying to watch the game on a broomstick. They were built for flying, simply staying up in the air was more to flying carpets' tastes.  
  
'Who's that big Chaser? The blonde one.'  
  
'Flint.'  
  
'And the Keeper?'  
  
'Wood.'  
  
Colin didn't say anything more, Mei wondered why he wanted to know about those particular two. He watched the game intently, his eyes like blue pinpricks of light. She would be the first to admit that he scared her sometimes, just a bit. She turned her attention back to the game.  
  
Flint and Wood were really slogging it out now. They seemed to have forgotten the other two players existed. Harder and harder they played, neither wanting to be the first to break. In Mei's opinion the Keeper had the edge, but the Chasers weren't defeated yet. It was a shame she could only pick one, two would be stretching it a bit.  
  
'Flint and Wood, I want them on the team.'  
  
Mei blinked. She must have misunderstood. Colin was the President's son, he would know best that each year they only picked one. 'I'm sorry? I thought you said you wanted both.'  
  
'You heard correctly.'  
  
'But, but-' she racked her brain for a good reason why those two could not be chosen. 'Look at them. Those two seem to have a personal grudge against each other. You can't have teammates who hate each other.'  
  
'If it is a grudge, then I'm all for it. Look at them. They've worked harder than anybody else I've seen all day, striving to outdo each other. Think about how good that would be for the team. It doesn't matter if they don't like each other, Keepers and Chasers rarely have any interaction on the pitch.'  
  
Grudgingly, Mei had to admit he was right. Colin had been a Ravenclaw, spent all his time in the library during his Hogwarts years. He was a passionate supporter of Quidditch, but had never once attempted to play himself. He had an sharp mind, the only thing better than his memory was his logic. But she wasn't going to let him mess with tradition without a fight.  
  
'Okay, competition is good, but what if they still hate each other by the time the Annual Charity Ball rolls around? The fact that every team will be there is bad enough, but could you just imagine the headlines if two players from the same team start a fight? Rita Skeeter would have a field day.'  
  
'Rita Skeeter doesn't need a field day. She can make a scandal out of thin air. Now that's real magic.' Mei hoped he was being sarcastic. It was hard to tell. Colin went on. 'These two players are both fresh out of Hogwarts right? The only way they could have hated each other with such a passion is if they were on opposing House teams. But we put them on the same team, we remove the need for that hatred. Trust me, it won't last long.'  
  
He smiled at her, but it didn't look sincere. He had other thoughts on his mind. She opened her mouth to argue.  
  
'But Colin-'  
  
'Who is the boss?'  
  
The question took her by surprise. 'Why you, of course.'  
  
He nodded. 'And had I reminded you of that fact, I would have saved this conversation a few minutes.' He patted her hand mockingly. 'Flint and Wood, I want them on the team.' He stopped to consider something. 'And McHardy. I want her too…and the second Keeper, didn't catch her name.'  
  
Mei was lost for words. Four new players? They certainly didn't need them. She shook her head ruefully; Colin might be the boss but that wouldn't stop Avalon giving her hell once he found out. A glance at her watch showed that the game had gone on too long, but the players hadn't noticed yet. She hastily whistled them down.  
  
Colin sat as still as never, quietly watching the players descend. He said nothing, but Mei could only guess as to how many different thoughts were running across his brain. It was in her experience that people who said very little tended to think more. His head propped up on one elbow, face tilted slightly to one side, he looked like a king on his throne.  
  
'Good job,' Mei addressed the sweaty players. 'If you'd go inside, there are some showers in the locker rooms and a cupboard with clean robes. Put them on, and we'll see you at lunch.'  
  
The players obeyed. Oliver trotted up ahead, in front of the rest of the group. Going back into the training room, he saw the other group of players; all sweaty, their shirts stuck to their backs, their hair hanging limp in front of their faces…there was a reason why the Quidditch season didn't start till Autumn.  
  
After taking a quick shower, he was amazed at how refreshed he felt. Mei was right, there was a stack of robes piled neatly on the benches. They were made of cotton, and a navy blue colour. Not as showy as the regular Puddlemere robes, but they still bore a small emblem embroidered on the chest area.  
  
He made his way back to the main hall. It was set up with a long dining table, and rough wooden chairs for everyone. The banners were gone, the room looked a lot more plain now. It could have given Hogwarts' Great Hall a run for its money in size, but not for decor. There was no need for floating candles, the sun was all to happy to shine through the large windows, casting a warm glow over Oliver as he sat down. Everyone looked a lot less threatening with the light making haloes over their heads.  
  
The table was stacked with food, mostly sandwiches and fruit. Oliver helped himself to some cheese sandwiches. It didn't matter how much he ate, the plates kept refilling anyway. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Colin enter and take a seat next to Mei. The two seemed attracted to each other in an obscure and unexplainable way. Either way, it was none of his business. Oliver reminded himself that he was here to play Quidditch, not meddle in other people's lives. Nothing good ever came out of meddling.  
  
Lunch went on for quite a while. The plates refilled themselves, so everyone just kept eating. Oliver had long ago finished, so he spent the time talking with one of the reserve Seekers. The little guy was keen to talk, and by the end Oliver had learnt a lot.  
  
Puddlemere had three grades: Premiership, First Grade and Second Grade. Reserves usually played First Grade, and if any of the Premiership guys were injured before a match, they were the ones to step in. Second Grade was an under-17's competition, for those who never went to Hogwarts or left school after their O.W.Ls. Out of the Chasers and Keepers, they usually only chose one player. (Oliver's stomach tightened at this.) Players needed to be present everyday, but training didn't happen everyday. Flying only occured on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, with games played on Thursday evenings.  
  
'What about Weekends?' Oliver asked.  
  
'Once the season starts, All Premiership matches are on Sunday, with First Grade beforehand in the afternoon and Second Grade on Saturday afternoons.'  
  
Oliver nodded, taking a sip of water out of a silver goblet. The food had stopped refilling, players started to leave the table, walking outside to stretch their legs. The little Seeker apologised, saying he had to go join his teammates now. He wished Oliver good luck before walking off with the rest.  
  
Oliver's group were the only ones left in the hall. Mei and Colin sat at the far end, talking in hushed voices. It looked like they were arguing about something. They whispered quickly at each other; Mei was making gestures, Colin looked undisturbed.  
  
'Faucon, Flint, McHardy and Wood,' Mei said suddenly, pushing her chair out and standing up, 'follow Mr. Chess. Beckfield and Warrington, follow me.'  
  
Silently, they obeyed. Colin came over, and they clustered around him. Mei led Warrington and Beckfield outside. Colin beckoned them to follow him.  
  
They walked silently, the only sound that could be heard was the squeaky footsteps of the group. Colin led them on, through a set of doors Oliver had never opened, into a long carpeted hallway. He did not say where he was talking them; no one wanted to ask. It was a collective feeling that what was about to happen was very important indeed, and it seemed a scandal to disturb it.  
  
Their shoes stepped onto polished wooden floorboards. Colin had led them into a small office. This one was bare and rather lacking compared to some of the ones they had passed through the hallway.  
  
Colin walked over to some cabinets and opened them one by one. He seemed to be looking for something. The group stood around, politely bewildered. Oliver's heart started to hammer. Was it possible that he was looking for some sort of dismissal papers? He had overheard Mei telling Colin they only took one, at most two, and there were four people in this room.  
  
Still, the logical part of Oliver's brain told him it was absurd. Beckfield, better than him? Warrington, better than Flint? Impossible.  
  
'Here it is.' Colin must have found what he was looking for. He thumped a folder of parchment onto a dusty desk. Opening it up, he took out four copies and laid them out on the desk. Using his wand, he conjured up four quills and an inkpot and beckoned them over.  
  
Oliver took a piece nervously. He didn't think of turning it over just yet. If it was what he thought it might be, then he would rather not know. A gasp from McHardy caught his attention. It was a happy gasp; if one could call it that, and encouraged, he turned the parchment over.  
  
The joy at seeing the word 'accepted' was at first too strong for words. Ecstatic didn't even come close. He grabbed a quill quickly, and scrawled his name on the dotted line.  
  
Once they had all finished signing their names, Colin took the stack of parchment and stowed it back in the same cabinet it came from. Another stack he had found, he tucked in his robes.  
  
'You're free to go home now, or watch the rest of the trials.' He said pleasantly. 'Go into the main hall, there's a large pot of Floo powder beside the main fireplace. That's the only way you can get home. If you wish to stay, the Beater trials are still on, you can watch them.'  
  
However much Oliver wanted to see some more professional players in action, the thought of going home and telling everyone was overpowering. He didn't say anymore; rather he sprang back down the corridor at the speed of scandalous gossip, grabbed the container of Floo Powder and sprinkled some onto the flames. That done, he stepped into the column of warm air, yelled 'Saltram House!' in a clear voice, and disappeared home.  
  
Oliver returned to an empty house. He stepped out of the kitchen fireplace, brushing soot off his robes out of habit rather than actually caring to get all the ash off, and headed for table. A slip of parchment lay on that table, written in emerald ink, Emilia's favourite colour.  
  
Oliver: Gone shopping. Will not be back for dinner. Seth said he'll drop by sometime in the afternoon. -Em  
  
The curt and cold tone of the letter sucked away some of Oliver's joy. As far as he could remember, Emilia had always ended a letter with 'love, Em.' It hurt that she had decided to do so differently today, however short the message had been.  
  
Oliver drew a chair up and sat down, breathing hard. He had planned to tell Emilia first. But she wasn't here, and wouldn't be back till after he had gone to bed. Most likely she and Ian had decided to gallivant around Diagon Alley together. She lived for that place.  
  
Seth dropping by would be something to look forward to. Dimly, a message from the small part of his brain that wasn't occupied with thoughts of Quidditch told him he should change. But Oliver ignored that message. Seth wouldn't mind his appearance.  
  
As if on cue, a face poked through the back window. Oliver nearly fell off his seat. With a big grin on his face, he got up to let his old friend inside.  
  
'Golly, don't you look a mess.' Were the first words out of Seth's mouth, as he looked Oliver up and down. It was true; Oliver's hair had been slicked up at odd angles from all the sweat, his robes had large sweat patches everywhere and he probably smelled a bit too.  
  
'I was planning to change,' Oliver lied. He moved over so Seth could take a seat.  
  
Seth looked different the last time Oliver had seen him. His hair was always the same; a mixture of dirty blond, brown and black, but it had grown so that it now bits of it shielded his eyes. His skin had gotten paler, so that his dark eyes looked more piercing than ever before.  
  
'Where have you been half the summer?' Oliver asked, 'you even missed graduation! Couldn't get a sound out of you after the N.E.W.T's.'  
  
Seth shrugged lightly, flicking a few strands of hair out of his eyes. He regarded Oliver with a weary look.  
  
'I've been roaming round Scotland. Getting in touch with my animal side. Only last week I made my way down here when I got sick of being alone. How was graduation, by the way?'  
  
'Long. Percy made a speech, nabbed a couple of awards. There was one for you, but Percy's got it since you were away. Oh!' Oliver suddenly remembered something urgent. 'I made the Puddlemere reserve team!'  
  
'Well, let me be the first to say congratulations.'  
  
'You are the first. I haven't told anyone else yet.'  
  
'What! Not even Emilia?'  
  
'Emilia's mad at me. Something about me having no responsibility. She's out at the moment.'  
  
'As if I couldn't tell,' Seth smirked. 'If she was here she would have offered me something to eat, by now.'  
  
'Which reminds me, do you want something to eat?' Oliver asked hurriedly, with a smile on his face. Seth didn't say anything, but Oliver got up to take a look around the cupboards. Emilia did all the shopping; he had never asked for anything specific, as long as it was edible, that was okay by him.  
  
The cupboards didn't show much promise. Just a lot of fruit, something that looked like a health tonic, but he spied a bar of chocolate hidden way deep in the corner. Oliver grabbed it with glee. Emilia must have stashed it away and forgotten about it, her loss.  
  
'Try this.' He said, tossing the bar onto the table, where it slid across to stop at Seth's fingertips.  
  
'Oliver, you know I don't eat chocolate.' Seth declined with a sigh.  
  
'You don't eat a lot of other stuff as well. Meat, cheese, eggs, nothing to do with animals. I thought you might had changed your mind about things, roaming around Scotland and all.'  
  
'Roaming around Scotland is very different than roaming around South England.' Replied Seth, averting his eyes so he wouldn't have to see Oliver unwrap a bar of 'Honeydukes Gold' and take a huge bite.  
  
'Must you eat that in front of me?' asked Seth exasperately, who couldn't resist and had now turned back to face Oliver. 'Can't you eat something else? Like marmite on toast?'  
  
'Don't like marmite,' said Oliver through a mouthful of caramel. 'I'm doing Emilia a favour. If she found it, then she'd be tempted to eat it, and thus wreck her diet.'  
  
'Isn't Emilia already thinner than most girls?'  
  
'Yeah, but she thinks chocolate is bad for your health.' Oliver made a face as he scrunched up the packet and banished it to the bin. 'Totally wrong, that view is.'  
  
Seth stood up suddenly. 'What, going already?' said Oliver with a start. 'You've only just got here!'  
  
Seth stood in the middle of the kitchen, torn between two choices. Really, he wasn't supposed to stay long, he had only come to inform Oliver that he was back in town, and now he should go. On the other hand, where was the sin in staying just a few minutes extra?  
  
Self-control won through in the end. 'I was only coming to tell you that I was back in England.' He said, letting his gaze fall wistfully on the domestic cheeriness of Oliver's kitchen curtains.  
  
'How long are you staying?'  
  
'Not long. For the summer.'  
  
'Have you seen Percy?'  
  
'Not yet. I will, though.'  
  
Oliver nodded. He wasn't happy, but he was satisfied. Seth never stayed in one place long. He was always on the move. Seven years at Hogwarts was long enough in one place for him.  
  
'Coming to the World Cup?' He asked Seth brightly.  
  
'Of course. What about Percy?'  
  
'He'll come.' Oliver suddenly grinned. 'It'll be like old times again. Me, you and Percy.'  
  
Seth laughed. 'I remember. 7th year?'  
  
'Smart-'  
  
'-sexy-'  
  
'-unstoppable.' They said at the same time.  
  
It was good to be together again.  
  
***  
  
The End.  
  
A/N: Gem, remember Seth? 


End file.
